


Worth Fighting For

by marvelandimagine



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gunshot Wounds, Hospitals, Italian Mafia, Russian Mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:26:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7677214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelandimagine/pseuds/marvelandimagine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vladimir x reader. You leave the apartment after a fight and end up getting shot by the Italians as a message to Vladimir. You barely survive and need surgery; Vladimir waits anxiously in the hospital; racked with pain, guilt and rage. Angst/hurt & comfort/fluff</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Y/N, I did not mean - котенок, I should not have-”

“Don’t follow me.”

“Y/N, don’t-”

You storm out into the hall, the sound of you slamming the door accompanied by the sound of Vladimir swearing loudly in Russian.

You half jog down the nearby staircase, shoving the door at the foot of the stairs open. You try to steady your breath as it mingles with the cool night air; fingers fumbling in your bag in search of temporary relief as you pace quickly down the dimly lit sidewalk. You find the crumpled carton of Marlboros—your sole “emergency” stress pack––and pull one out of the case, your other hand digging and successfully grasping your lighter.

You walk till you’re almost at the end of the block, sitting down on the curb as you light the cigarette, squeezing your eyes closed to hold the building tears back. You inhale the smoke, the nicotine, the distraction gratefully; tilting your head up and blowing a thick stream of smoke up and out into the starless sky.

The shouted frustrations exchanged between you and your boyfriend ring painfully in your head. You rationally know that it started as a stupid fight. You had made a half-joking comment about how he was never home anymore, and the argument just escalated way too fast from there.

“I stay at work to protect me AND you, Y/N! What more you want, hm? At least I am not precious mudak ex who banged sluts you did not notice for 6 months!”

You know that the words that had sent you out the door were just said out of anger, that Vladimir regretted it the second he said it––you could tell by the look on his face, the earnestness in his voice after––but that didn’t make the pain sting any less.

You had done your best to work on your trust issues with Vladimir; you didn’t want the baggage from your past relationship affecting your newest one. He knew that, too, and he knew that you weren’t questioning his loyalty––you just missed him.

You take another deep drag and pulled out your phone, blinking again at the lock screen background of you and Vladimir; a selfie of you curled up in bed together with Vladimir’s blond hair sticking in all directions, a smile on your face as he smiled while resting his chin on your shoulder.

You swipe through the photo album on your phone filled with all the pictures of you two together, a visual reminder of how much you do really love being with Vladimir. How much he loves you back.

You don’t want this one argument to tear you apart, but you sure as hell aren’t going back to normal without any apology for him. But you’re pretty certain you’ll be getting one today, and the next day, and the day after that, first verbal, then in the tangible, sparkling and stupidly expensive kind. That was the thing about Vladimir, anything he ever did, anything he ever felt, it was intense.

You smile as you remember the time he Ralphie Parker-style snapped your glasses after stumbling sleepily into your side table, knocking it over and stepping right on the fallen spectacles. Even though you weren’t mad and you said you could just go later and look for new ones, he had kissed your head, told you to stay put and had come back to the apartment an hour later; absolutely disheveled and adorable and holding about 20 Versace boxes.

“Could not find ones like those, so I found all ones I think you will like.”

Absolutely ridiculous Russian idiot. But god, did he make you laugh, make you happy; make you feel loved, safe. No couple is perfect, right?

You sigh, dry your eyes, take one last drag of your cigarette and take one last look at your phone background. You loved Vladimir more than you loved your pride and would be willing to move past this as long as he was truly sorry.

You stand up, wipe your hands on your jeans and start to walk back to the apartment; chuckling slightly as you can imagine what Tiffany present you’ll be coming home to the next day after you talk things out. You’re completely unaware of the danger that lies just minutes away.

-

While you were sitting down in the cold alley, Vladimir was pacing around the apartment, utterly rattled. How could he have been stupid enough to hurt the first person he ever cared about as much as Anatoly?

He knows bringing up your cheating ex to compare his actions to was fucked up, that he hated himself as the words came out and the way your face changed in response – like he had just slapped you. And now, because he overreacted and took your comment as a critical attack rather than just acknowledging you missing him, the thought of losing you over his stupid mouth ripped through him like a knife – he would know, he accumulated a lot of stab wounds in his career.

His head is pounding as he tries to think of a good enough apology, but fuck, what if you break up with him? That look of pain on your face – Vladimir never wanted to see that again, let alone know he was the cause.

He takes out his phone, blue eyes intensely focused on the lock screen background of the two of you.

It was from the night when practically everyone from the garage had decided to go out and celebrate Sergei’s engagement, including you and Vladimir. You were both shitfaced; it was a miracle that Anatoly had managed to get a good picture of the two of you together: you sitting in Vladimir’s lap and kissing his cheek happily, his face in your hands while he laughed and squeezed you closer to him.

Drunk, or sober, that’s how you made Vladimir feel; happy, loved and goddamn lucky to have a woman as great as you.

He couldn’t bear the thought of fucking up what he had with you – the first real relationship he had – over this. He hated saying sorry to anyone for anything, but for you, he’d burn down a fucking city just to keep you by his side.

He looks at the clock on his phone, realizing that you’ve been out for almost 15 minutes; panic starting to set in as he wonders if you actually went to crash somewhere else. He had to apologize to you, to let you know that he fucked up and that it won’t happen again; that he hates himself for hurting you because you’re the greatest thing to ever come into his life. He needs to find you.

He’s already thinking of what time he’s going to go to Tiffany’s tomorrow to pick you up apology presents when he shuts the door behind him – if you forgive him, he might buy the whole damn store.

-

You see him before he sees you – you could spot that inimitable shock of spiky blond hair from blocks away. You watch as he looks to the right of the apartment building, starting to walk with one hand balled in the pocket of his jacket while the other taps at his iPhone screen.

Within seconds, you feel your phone buzz in your front pocket; picking it up to a text from “Volodya”: “Солнышко, please come home. I need to talk to you.”

You exhale deeply, knowing that your Volodya really does feel bad if he’s out looking for you and pleading for you to come back. You just want to get back to him, talk, have make up sex and let things go back to normal.

You respond: “You’re going the wrong way.”

You smile as he stops in his tracks and you know he’s read the message when he spins around; you wave at him from the end of the street and though you can’t see his face clearly, your heart tells you he’s smiling back.

You both continue walking toward each other, your attention briefly drifting to the sound of a car slowing down next to you. Your pulse quickens as you notice the Cadillac’s tinted windows, mentally cursing yourself for leaving your gun in the apartment, but remembering that Vladimir is close and trying to keep yourself from panicking over nothing. Maybe someone just needs directions.

It’s wishful thinking.

Vladimir sees the car pull near you and immediately quickens his pace, not fully alerted, however, until he realizes the windshield is tinted. The icy cold that floods through him comes the second later as he sees the bullet holes marking the front end; the crushing recollection of Piotr and Semyon coming back last week and cursing out those fucking Italians, how some of Alesci’s new guys had tried jumping them unsuccessfully; the experienced Russians taking the three younger guys out before one of them managed to get away in his “piece of shit Caddy.”

It all happens so quickly. The passenger window is rolling down and Vladimir is running toward you; the man in the car yells out, “Here’s a message for your boyfriend, cagna,” then it’s the sound of bullets; gunfire cracking through the air at you and away from you.

You don’t process the bullets ripping through you until you realize you’ve dropped back on the ground, looking down to everything red, so much red; your body’s shock still holding out as Vladimir drops to your side, his blue eyes widened in horror.

“Volodya,” you murmur, not even sure what you’re trying to say but needing to know that he’s there; and then his hand is squeezing yours and as you see the blood -your blood- now covering his fingers, the shock keeping you numb starting to dissipate with the visceral realization of “Holy fuck, I just got shot.”

“Shh, ангел, do not speak. You are fine, you are fine.”

It’s the shakiness in Vladimir’s voice that scares you more than the blood; the fact that he’s unnerved means you really should be panicking.

The shock is fading out to an overwhelming sensation of frailty; it’s like you can feel your body folding inward on itself as that red becomes red fire coursing through your chest and fuck, is this what it feels like to die? Am I dying?

Breathing is so hard but damn, does it feel good to close your eyes, to try to make sense of the physical and mental overload of sensation and thought.

“Y/N, нет, stay with me!”

You‘re swimming in fire and pain but somehow manage to open your eyes, confused to see that your surroundings are moving; sliding down onto the cool leather of the backseat of car; Vladimir’s dark hoodie laying across your chest as he takes your hands and presses down hard.

You bite your lip but the whine of pain escapes anyways, Vladimir smoothing your hair back with blood-stained hands; his words rushed but strong still:

“I know it hurts, I know, love, but you must hold until we get to hospital, da? Need you staying awake.”

You jerk your head up a fraction of an inch to show your understanding; Vladimir bolting up and around the car into the driver’s seat. You’re not stupid. You saw the blood that was pouring out – you might not even make it to the hospital.

You muster up what strength you have, trying to remember how words work; wondering if he’ll even hear it with how small and crumpled you feel. You don’t want to die, you don’t want to think if these will be your last words. But if they are, you know what they need to be:

“Volodya. I love you.”

-

Those three words murmured from the backseat, words that normally bring a smile to his scarred face and make him feel at ease, send a deeper kind of panic flooding through his nervous system. Your tone is quiet, your breath is ragged – it’s almost like you’re saying goodbye.

He’ll be damned if he’ll let those words be your last.

At the same time he floors the gas pedal to the ground –the lights of the city turning into nothing but blurry streaks of color as you fight to keep your eyes open in the backseat – he takes his right hand off the wheel and swings it to the back; reaching for your own shaking hand and placing his fingers on your wrist.

He fights to keep the suffocating weight on his chest from forcing him to cave inward as he feels how weak your pulse is; glancing up in the rear view to see that your head has lolled to the side, your eyes shut.

“Y/N, wake up! You promise you stay awake for me, remember?” He squeezes your hand, his blue eyes starting to sting with the thought of him never hearing your voice again – a thought he pushes to the back of his mind. You would be fine. You had to be.

It’s a few minutes before the tires on his Benz screech as he swerves left and into the ER ramp; keys practically ripped out of the ignition as he sprints to open the backseat door.

The sight of you there haunts him for months. You’re white as a ghost, lips half parted, hair streaked with blood from where Vladimir touched you, chest soaked to such a deep shade of red that it almost looks surreal.

For a second, he fears the worst until he sees your chest heave while you mutter something incomprehensible under your breath. When he lifts you up and out into his arms, there’s a pool of blood remaining from where a bullet must’ve exited through your back.

He’s half jogging to the emergency room door, not wanting to move any bullets further into you, looking down to see that your eyes are half open, your blood-stained hand suddenly clutching at his shirt as your lock eyes for a second before they close again:

“остаёшься.”

Your Russian is slurred and soft but he can still make out the pleading tone and Vladimir nods in response, his throat tightening as he manages a choked out:

“Of course I stay, котенок. But you must stay with me, da?” As he shoves open the door, he whispers more to himself than anyone:

“Cannot live if you don’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

He enters the bright room and watches as a sea of heads – patients and staff alike – swivel in his direction. He doesn’t even need to speak before three nurses rush over, the male taking you into his arms while the small blond wheels over a gurney.

He barely registers the pretty, but exhausted-looking Puerto Rican nurse beside him until she squeezes his arm; steering him in close proximity to you and immediately firing questions:

“You related to her?

“Boyfriend.”

“Did you see what happened?”

“Drive by shooting, 15 minutes ago. Think one bullet went out, there are some still … still in her. There was silencer; could not tell for sure but seemed like-”

He cuts off, his gaze fixed on your still form; the nausea taking hold of him as he watches as the one nurse slits your blood-soaked shirt apart and off to assess the damage, the other now connecting you to a myriad of IV tubes. He sees the huge splotch of purple on your skin, trying to stay steady while knowing that you’re bleeding internally, and bad.

The nurse snaps her fingers in front of him and he finally looks at her, thrown off at first by the odd bruises and cuts on her face. The snap was sharp but her tone is kind:

“You got her here, now the best way to keep helping her is to tell me what I need to know, ok?”

Vladimir finally averts his gaze away from your mangled torso, taking a deep breath before he continues thickly, starting to run a hand through his blond hair but stopping as he sees your blood staining his tattoos.

“From holes, think it was .45. Heard three shots, found three holes.″

“What’d you do when she got shot?”

“Used sweater to put pressure and keep bleeding down. Took her to car and had her hold it. Pulse was quiet, it was hard for me to find at first.”

“She have any allergies or prescribed medications?”

“Not that I know.”

The nurse nods and backpedals starting to follow your moving transport, holding a hand out to stop Vladimir. 

He hardly can recognize his own voice, shaking and panicked and filled with desperation. He’s been so used to burying fear, of being in control, that the sound of it in his voice only further intensifies the sinking feeling in his chest.

“I need to be with her. She told me to stay, I need to be with her.”

The nurse shakes her head.

“It’s medical staff only here on out. I know it’s hard, but right now, you just need to wait and let us do our jobs. I’m going to tell them what you told me, ok, and I’ll be back to let you know what’s happening – just looking at her, she’s going to need some kind of surgery to fix the hemorrhaging, but there can always be other complications we haven’t seen yet. Since she’s unconscious, we’ll need your consent before operating.”

Vladimir tries to tell her ok, but he’s afraid that he’s going to scream or throw up or both if he opens his mouth. He just nods.

The nurse reads this plainly on his face, patting his shoulder.

“Hey, you got her here fast; that alone gives her a much higher chance of pulling through. Just hang tight and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He nods this time, swallowing back the waves of dizziness and panic to ask:

“What is your name?”

“Claire. What’s yours?”

“Vladimir. Thank you, Claire.”

Even through the haze of anxiety and guilt and hurt pulsing through him, he notices her eyes widen slightly at his name, but the odd look of surprise passes as quickly as she smiles.

“Of course. Go sit down, get some water, and take a deep breath.”

She jogs off and down the hall and he continues to stare after her a few seconds after she’s dissapeared.

He hears whispering behind him and whips around, his temper finally breaking.

“WHAT?!”

The waiting room goes silent as he stands there, shaking, wondering why everyone is staring at him until catches a glint of red and remembers that he’s covered in blood. Your blood.

A squat, motherly looking nurse comes around the desk, meeting his glare with a sympathetic sigh; approaching him and taking him by the arm in a surprisingly firm grip.

“C’mon, dear, you should get that all off you. There’s a bathroom around the corner – and if you’re staying, you might want to call someone so you can change out of those clothes.”

She releases her grip as she takes him out of the waiting room; she’s already gone back in by the time Vladimir tries to mutter out a “thanks.”

He pushes open the door; squinting slightly under the harsh fluorescent lighting and smell of cleaning supplies. He turns to the sink, the red on his hands a stark contrast to the pale white; trying to keep his breathing even as he washes your blood off him.

It’s like a record skipping, scratching on his brain; the image of you covered in blood and ghostly white; the way your blood-stained fingertips clutched then fell limply from his shirt like the quiet plea for him to stay that slid off your tongue.

He turns the faucet up louder, desperately trying to find something to focus on, to rid himself of red on his skin – the tangible reminder that he failed to keep you safe. That if he hadn’t started fighting with you, you’d still be in the apartment together; safe and happy and alive.

Alive. You still had to be alive.

He grips the sink as tightly as he closes his eyes, the thought of that deathly white shade remaining permanent on your beautiful face making his breath come in shallow bursts.

There was too much pain, too much fear, too much guilt – he needed to do something, needed to keep moving before it all took him down.

Revenge. What he needs is revenge.

Blinding rage consumes him as he turns his thoughts briefly away from you to the Italians. His teeth clench as he thinks about those bastards sitting there unscathed, reveling in the knowledge that they found his weak spot, that they hurt that they sent their “message.”

Well, he’s going to send one right the fuck back. A message that not a single Italian mob member will survive, one filled with blood and fire and his fury that will leave them all regretting the thoughtless decision to hurt someone he loved.

Tolya. Get Tolya here.

Vladimir strides out of the bathroom, phone in hand as he walks through the waiting room and outside. He hits Anatoly’s name, pacing as he waits for an answer. It goes to voicemail. His Russian pours out of him, angry and quick:

“Tolya. Tell Sergei to get men ready. Guns, rifles grenades. All of it. Y/N …. Y/N got shot. It was those fucking Italians that jumped Piotr and Semyon. Every last one of those fucking dagos will burn. For all the blood she’s spilled, they will pay thousand times over.”

He feels the adrenaline starting to build, yes, this is what he knows; this is familiar, he’s back in control, taking action for you, for him, against those mudaks and god, it’s going to feel so good to watch them scream –

And just as quickly as it comes it goes, the cold slap of reality strikes him in his lungs as he hears the screech of an ambulance flying up to the ER door; a body bloodied like yours quickly wheeled out and in.

So fierce is his conviction, his need to have you live – his need to avenge you – that he almost forgot you’re being prepped to go under the knife – that he knows, deep down under everything storming inside him that your life isn’t a guarantee.

He’s walking to the door, very aware of how his breathing went shallow again, and tries to steady himself, continuing:

“We discuss plans to move forward when you get here, брат мой.” He swallows hard, trying to still sound strong as he ends: “Swing by my apartment, too. Need clothes that aren’t .. that don’t have blood on them.”

He hangs up and walks back into the waiting room; sitting down and staring at the lock screen of you two together before he brings his fists to his lips, almost like a prayer.

The adrenaline has faded to a kind of numbness as he thinks about you lying on the operating table; every fiber of his being willing you to pull through, to come back to him. Hell, he’d go back to Utkin if it meant he could see you smile again, to get the chance to tell you how sorry he was for that fight and for letting you get hurt. For not protecting you, valuing you like he should’ve. For forgetting what was really important in this land of riches.

He concentrates all his energy, his thoughts on you, his plea ringing in his head:

“Hold on, my love. You are strong, so strong. Please come back to me. I will never forgive myself for letting you get hurt, for hurting you myself, too, but I’ll die before it happens again. Just live, just live, just live. I’ll make things right, just live. Please, Y/N. I need you.”


	3. Chapter 3

Anatoly strides through the ER doors, eyes scanning the sea of people until they fall on his brother. He’s taken aback by the sight of him – he’s never seen his older brother look so distressed, so vulnerable.

His carefully cultivated blond spikes are disheveled as all hell, arms crossed tightly across his blood-stained chest while his dark motorcycle boots tap away at the floor. Every few seconds, his blue eyes flicker from the ground to the hallway; his scarred countenance falling back into weary lines of worry as his gaze goes back to to ground.

Anatoly walks over to Vladimir and the blond immediately stands up when he sees him approach in his peripheral vision. He’s never been so relieved to see his little brother, who gives him a half smile which Vladimir simply can’t bring himself to return.

Anatoly motions to the doors outside and Vladimir nods, following the brunette out. He’s already unbuttoning his shirt as Anatoly hands him dark jeans and a T-shirt; murmuring a quiet “thanks” while shirking it on over his head before the pair move out of sight behind some trees near the entrance. Vladimir doesn’t give a shit that he’s standing in his boxers near a hospital; he feels the weight lift off slightly him as soon as the clean jeans are on – the final vestiges of your blood finally off his body.

Now that he’s up close, Anatoly really is floored by Vladimir’s appearance – even without the blood-stained clothes, he looks like complete shit. His eyes are rimmed red, from tears or exhaustion or both; Anatoly honestly isn’t sure. It’s unnerving to see his brother so shaken, but Anatoly recognizes that he can’t let that show. He needs to be strong for Volodya, strong for you, too, who he’s come to view as like a sister.

He reaches into the pocket of his dark jeans, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He grabs one for himself and offers the pack to his brother, who accepts gratefully.

It’s quiet between them as they light up, exhaling smoke out into the cool evening air. Anatoly speaks first, taking another drag as he waits for an answer:

“How is she, Volodya?”

“Don’t know. They took her in for surgery when we brought her in, that was forty minutes ago.” Even in the limited light, Anatoly sees his brother’s face pale before he continues, “I saw the bruising before they took her in. There was … there was a lot of bleeding inside her.”

“Ay,” Anatoly claps a firm hand on Vladimir’s shoulder, locking eyes with his brother’s own that shine bright with fear and guilt. “She is strong woman, da? They wouldn’t have put her in surgery if there wasn’t chance she’d pull through.”

Chance.

Vladimir fixates on the word. Your life has been left in the hands of strangers, in the hands of chance because of him. You should be at home with him, curled up in bed while he plays with your hair. You should be laughing and smiling and teasing him, your Volodya, like you always do. But instead you’re bleeding and broken and so, so far from him now because he took you for granted. Because he didn’t protect you like he should’ve. Didn’t show you how deeply he loved you like he should’ve.

Anatoly watches in surprise as Vladimir shakes his head, his normally controlled, confident tone coming out in a broken whisper:

“It’s my fault, Tolya. It’s my fault she could die.”

“нет listen to me, брат мой -”

“нет you listen!” Vladimir’s voice raises to a strangled yell as he shoves his brother back – and it’s here that Anatoly realizes is Vladimir’s breaking point.

Anatoly’s eyes widen in shock and sympathy as he watches his brother squeezing his eyes shut in a futile attempt to keep the tears from falling out as his voice grows louder and shakes with grief:

“We had fight, that’s why she went out there. Because all she wanted was to see me more, you know, see her дружок not after 11 at night; I should have been treating her like the ангел she is who puts up with my shit, but I let my temper from today go at her … brought up her ex. I hurt her, Tolya. I didn’t mean to. I was going to find her, she was down the street and she waved-”

Vladimir breaks off, startling his brother with how quickly his look of broken anguish darkening to one of malice, of hate. It’s a look Anatoly knows well – the desire to kill. Vladimir’s tortured tone continues to shake, but no longer with grief. His voice is all sharp, jagged in its fury; unchecked, blinding, merciless.

“Those ублюдки got to her first. They will burn, every last one of them. Wives, kids, anyone they care about. They can thank their death to the motherfuckers who dared hurt her, hurt my Y/N.” 

Before Anatoly even has the chance to try to speak and talk Vladimir down out of his rage, his brother continues, his voice quieting as if he’s speaking more to himself than anyone else:

“But even after I cut off head of every last one of those fucking dagos and watch them burn, I’ll never forgive myself for what I did to her. What I let happen.”

A heavy silence weighs in between the brothers for a few moments, Vladimir trying to inconspicuously wipe the stinging pain out of his eyes and stifling his sniffles while Anatoly tries to think of the right words to console his brother.

“Vova, I can’t … can’t imagine what you’re going through right now. Won’t pretend I do,” he says simply, watching as Vladimir’s eyes won’t leave the ground.”

“But revenge can wait. Right now, you need to be here with Y/N. Wait to see how she’s doing, stay with her.” 

He steps forward, once again clasping the blond on the shoulder, but he doesn’t throw it away this time. Anatoly continues on, the earnestness in his voice lifting Vladimir’s gaze to meet his own:

“After that, when she is good, when you both are, then we can figure out how to deal with Italians. Do not act rashly, Vova – for your sake and Y/N’s.”

Vladimir nods, pulling his brother into a split-second embrace as he mumbles a hoarse, “Thank you.”

The corner of Anatoly’s lip turns up in a small but reassuring smile.

“Always here for you, and Y/N too, da? C’mon,” he says, stamping the remnants of his cigarette into the ground. “Let’s see if nurses know anything.”

-

The Russians must have have been outside longer than they thought because when they walk in, Vladimir sees a concerned-looking Claire talking to the receptionist.

“There you are!” The motherly woman gestures behind Claire and she turns around, smiling slightly at Vladimir but her eyes betray a sense of uneasiness with the other brooding and tattooed figure behind him.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Vladimir isn’t happy that he and his brother make for an intimidating duo.

Vladimir motions to Anatoly who gives a nod of his head: “This is my brother, Anatoly.” The curtness in his voice drops as he proceeds to ask, “How is Y/N?”

“Well she pulled through surgery-” she breaks off with a kind smile as she watches the way Vladimir’s eyes light up; it’s rare that she gets to deliver good news. So she takes a deep breath before continuing: She’s nowhere near at 100 percent though, or even like 80 … she lost a lot of blood quickly and the organ damage the surgeons repaired means she’s going to need a good amount of time and rest to fully recover and she’ll need to watch for infections. Depending on how she progresses, she also might need physical therapy to help with her range of motion.”

Pretty much all Claire said after hearing you were alive faded into the background of Vladimir’s whirring thoughts … you were ok, you were alive. You would pull through this and he would be right there by your side – if you’d still have him.

“You wanna see her?”

He jolts out of his reverie, nodding so emphatically that Claire can’t help but smile again. She motions for him to follow her and Vladimir turns to Anatoly, who is already moving back to the waiting room.

“You go see her first, I’ll be out here.”

The two walk down the hall side by side, a few passing nurses warily eyeing the tall blond. He barely registers it though, he’s so full of relief that you’re ok that nothing else seems to matter.

“She’s sleeping now, DO NOT wake her up on your own – girl needs every bit of rest she can get. And she’s on a decent dose of Fentanyl for the pain, so if she wakes up and seems … well, stoned, it’s because she is.”

Vladimir can’t help but chuckle, thinking of all the times you’ve both ended up curled up on the couch together, takeout containers strewn across the coffee table next to the remnants of multiple joints while you snuggle into him, giggling into his neck and gently sighing your, “I love yous” in such a way that it makes him cherish you all the more.

He can’t lose that, lose you – you had to forgive him. He’d do whatever it takes.

Claire doesn’t miss the laugh though, eyeing him curiously.

“Do I wanna know why you’re laughing about your girlfriend doped up on Fentanyl?”

“ нет it is not not, it’s just … we smoke sometimes,” he mutters, surprised to find his eyes dropping to the ground sheepishly under the sharp gaze of this small nurse. “She gets real funny, it is cute.”

He lifts his eyes to meet Claire’s, swallowing and running a hand through his spiky hair. He was never real good at saying thanks, but he had to try.

“I, uh, just wanted -”

Claire simply smirks slightly, patting him on the arm.

“Don’t mention it, Blondie, it’s my job.” Her tone softens as she continues,“Now go be with your cute girlfriend – there’s a red button on her bedside if you need us for anything.”Vladimir watches as Claire walks down the hall, waving without turning around, and moving out of sight as she rounds the corner.

He takes a deep breath and opens the door to your room – so happy that you’re safe and alive, but also terrified at having to see the damage that’s been done to you once more.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s eerily quiet in your room, the only sounds present are the beeping of the machine monitoring your heartbeat and the drip of an IV flooding your system with narcotic relief.

But all Vladimir can focus on is what he sees.

Even though he knows you’re alive, he’s filled with that cold panic again that overtook him looking at your broken body spread askew in the back of his car.

The colors have changed – you’re no longer soaked through in red, but wearing a clean, white hospital gown – but your fragility is still just as apparent in the myriad of tubes taped to your body, how pale your skin still remains.

Vladimir swallows hard, moving toward your bedside where he wordlessly hovers over you for a few seconds. You shouldn’t be here, you should be home, safe with him. He’d watch you wake up, that wide sleepy smile lighting up your face as you snuggle yourself in closer to him to savor his warmth.

“Morning, Vova.”

How long is going to be before you smile like that again, before you feel right again? Aside from your physical recovery, he knows the torment of nightmares that come with violent bloodshed, the anxiety, paranoia and anger that come after stumbling on death’s ledge.

How long will it be before you trust him again? Will you still even love him?

Now that you’re stable and alive, a new kind of fear sets in: the fear of you not wanting him anymore. That even if you do smile again, he won’t get to see it; it’ll be for someone else, someone less erratic, more appreciative of her.

Someone who keeps her safe.

He can’t help the tears that brim in his blue eyes and he doesn’t attempt to stop them falling out as he whispers, his normally steady tone breaking under the weight of his pain:

“I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve you, angel, but I don’t want to lose you.”

He lowers himself to gingerly press his lips against your forehead before falling back into the chair by your bedside, bringing his tattooed hand to cover your limp one; his thumb caressing the soft, cool skin.

He stays like this for awhile, watching the rise and fall of your chest; his eyes flickering to the monitor now and then to make sure that your heart is still beating.

Keeping his hand on yours, he reaches for his phone with the other and realizing that he’s been sitting there for 30 min. He’s about to text Anatoly to tell him that he can go back to the garage when he feels your fingers twitch against his.

He stops mid-text, dropping his phone on the chair and rising out to stand near the top of your bed, his hand moving to smooth the top of your hair.

“Y/N? You awake, принцесса?”

His voice is a combination of hope and fear, longing to see your pretty eyes open again but also filled with the dread of having to explain what happened. Having to revisit how he was the reason that you left the apartment, left safety, in the first place.

You don’t respond.

Vladimir squeezes his eyes shut, fingers curling around the cold metal of your bed frame and biting at the bottom corner of his lip to keep this new emotion – this unfamiliar feeling of being utterly powerless – from echoing out in a sob.

He’s focusing on keeping his own breath steady when the sharp, drawn out sound of a singular high-pitched beep fills the room.

His heart jumps at the same moment his eyes open wide, and he’s met with the sight of you in a frenzied state, tugging at the plastic tubes and tape all over your body in a desperate attempt to remove them from your skin.

His hands are on yours in an instant but it’s not the action that stops your movements, it’s the sound of his voice, rushed but reassuring with that thick accent that you know so well – the voice that sounds like home.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, Y/N, it is ok. You are in hospital, ангел. I’m right here, you are ok.”

He uses one hand to get your oxygen mask off while his other brushes against his eyes in the same few seconds– he doesn’t want you to see that he’s been crying.

Your chest still rises in quick succession with your panicked breaths as you adjust to the different quality of oxygen in the room, eyes still confused and anxious as they look down at your arms.

“Wha- Vova what happened?”

Vladimir remembers what Claire said about the painkillers, his heart twinging as he notices your pupils are constricted from the opiate in your system, your voice still cracking with emotion but low and noticeably slower than your usual rapid chatter.

And despite the physically relaxing effects of the drug, you still look rattled and so Vladimir smooths your hair down, satisfied that you’re still able to elicit a contented hum under his familiar touch.

“I want to know how you are feeling first, then we talk, да?”

You suddenly become acutely aware of your physical state, too jarred by your initial reaction to your new environment and the tubes covering you to process just how your body and brain felt upon waking up.

“Drained. I just wanna move, everything feels so tired …” You pause for a second, trying to shake the odd feeling like you’re dreaming and hoping you’re not crazy as you add, “I feel like I’ve got a huge body high, like I was ripping bongs…”

You draw your fingers one by one into your palm, as you stare in incredulity, still trying to piece together what’s happened.

“Am I dreaming or am I on something?”

Vladimir shakes his head and takes your curled fist in his hand, brushing his lips against it before he looks back at you.

“You are awake. But nurses put you on fentanyl to help with pain.” He gives you a crooked smile that doesn’t hide the anxiety still lingering in his eyes.

“I was worried you’d be too stoned to talk.”

“Holy shit. It must’ve been real bad then,” you say to yourself more than your boyfriend. You suddenly feel restless and as you attempt to sit up, you feel a pulsing flash of pain in your abdomen and everything comes rushing back.

The gunshots, Vladimir’s scream, the pavement, the way the city lights turned blurry as you tried not to fall asleep, clutching at Vladimir’s chest before you blacked out.

Vladimir is there right as the acknowledgment of your injuries passes through your lips, one hand on your back and the other cradling your head as he helps you lie nearly flat again.

“It was.” He swallows, not wanting to say the words out loud because it only cements this nightmare of nearly losing you further into his head:

“You got sh-”

But you beat him to it, the memories pressing down on your chest like lead.

“IgotshotIgotshotholyshit.” Your voice is rushed and high and you squeeze your eyes tightly, your teeth pressing down on your knuckles as the crushing reality of your dance with death pounds in between your eardrums.

You feel your hand being wrenched out of your teeth and an instinctive, fearful whine slips out from you in your heightened state of anxiety,

“Shh, Y/N, you are safe now. I’m right here.”

You open your eyes now stinging with tears because holy fuck, you realize now that you almost died under 24 hours ago. But being met with the sight of Vladimir’s scarred face, him dropping to his knees to be level with you, and the feel of his hand still stroking your hair helps you to calm down a bit.

You exhale as you blink fast, trying to stay as grounded as you can while on an opiate vastly more powerful than morphine. So you focus on what you know, what always makes you feel better, Vladimir’s face.

It takes some effort but you reach out your hand to touch his face, your eyes tracing the path of your touch as your fingers ghost over his jawline and lips before they move to run through what blond hair you can reach. Just touching him makes you feel better, comforts you in the knowledge that you really are here and alive.

But what stops your trailing fingers is when you focus enough to fixate on his eyes. They’re definitely your Vova’s, the stormy blue that never fails to entrance you, but it’s the red around them, how swollen they look that throws you off.

Vladimir watches in concern as you frown, your head shifting slightly as though you can’t believe what you’re seeing. He’s worried again, wondering if the drugs are taking your lucidity, when your murmur catches him off guard:

“You were crying because of me?” You know he loves you but you also know how guarded he is, and in your half-stoned state, the idea of him crying about you doesn’t seem real.

Vladimir gives a quiet, humorless laugh that sounds more like a sigh than anything before he kisses your forehead, lingering there longer than normal before he pulls back to look at you, fighting a new wave

He runs his thumb across your scratched cheek, his adoration apparent in how tenderly he touches you and the way his voice, normally sharp and all hard edges, matches the softness in his touch.

“I thought I lost you. And it would have been- it was my fault.” Vladimir never knew he could feel so much love and so much guilt at once. Knowing how it was his anger that pushed you out the door and into what almost took your life, he knows it’ll haunt him until he dies.

“No, Vova, stop, it’s not -”

“It is, Y/N.” His voice raises and cracks slightly as he continues, the words spilling out of him as quickly as the tears start to come in both your eyes:

“I pushed you away, pushed you out right into their fucking path. If it was not then, it would have been different day because I was not treating you like I should. I know I’m shit at relationships and I fuck up, but I never want to lose this.” Vladimir’s voice has dropped to a whisper, and you’re biting your lip to fight your own crying as he swipes at the tear track running down his scar.

“I love you so much, so much Y/N. And I will never stop hating myself because I did not keep you safe, did not protect you, did not treat you like amazing woman you are.“

He manages to steady his voice before he continues, but his eyes are still shining: “You almost died because of me. And you have every right to tell me go to hell, but if you .. if you still want me, things will be different with us. I swear my life on it.”

You choke back a sob but you’re smiling at him, still pale and weak but that smiles light up Vladimir’s entire goddamn world and all he sees is how beautiful and strong you are.

“Of course I still want you, I love you. “You’re my favorite Russian, my Blondie, always.” Your voice is so earnest and sweet as so you, even through the drugs, that Vladimir can’t help but smile back, finding your hand as you each squeeze each others’ fingers.

“Babe, I know you were sorry as soon as you said it and I forgive you. And I know that you’re the reason I’m still here, because you took care of me and got me here. And I know you always will.”

You feel a sense of peace and bliss moving through you and it isn’t from the fentanyl, it’s from how you’ve never felt closer to Vladimir, seen him so open. And fuck, you obviously didn’t want to get shot to have him have an epiphany about your relationship, but all that mattered now was that you were here and alive and together.  
The playful edge to your voice that Vladimir loves so well enters your tone despite your obvious weariness: 

“Gonna take more than a few bullets to keep me away from you, Ranskahov.”

And Vladimir finds himself chuckling, feeling dizzy with relief and pure, true joy at knowing that you’re not only alive, but that you still love him. That he’ll never take another day with you for granted.

He frames your face with his hand as he brings your lips to yours. You savor the tenderness in his kiss before you can’t help but giggle against him at the awkward angle. But you don’t care. You latch onto him, your hand tugging at the back of his hair as you intensify the kiss, surprised as he pulls back with an adoring but equally conflicted look on his face.

“Not now, красивая девушка. You need rest, we do this when you are better.”

“Passing up a chance to make out in favor of my health? You really do love me, don’t you,” you murmur, but both of you can still hear the affection in your voice.  
Vladimir kisses the crown of your head in response and pulls back to gaze into your eyes once more before he leaves to get Claire and his brother. You don’t even need to hear him speak as you turn your focus to the way he’s looking at you – the kind of look that only means one thing.

“Yeah, I really do.”


End file.
